Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11) - J.R. Ward Page 0,149

“Yes, it does. Where are you…” He stopped himself with a reminder that that was none of his business anymore. “Let me know if you need anything?”

“I promise.”

On impulse, Blay walked over and put his arms around his former lover, the platonic connection as unforced and natural as his previously amorous one had been. Holding onto the male, he turned his face in.

“Thank you,” Blay said. “For coming and telling me—”

At that moment, someone passed by in the hall, the stride faltering.

It was Qhuinn; Blay knew by the scent even before the tall, powerful figure registered visually. And in the brief hesitation before the guy kept going, their eyes locked over Saxton’s shoulder.

Qhuinn’s face became a mask instantly, the features freezing, giving nothing away.

And then the fighter was gone, his long legs taking him out of the open door’s frame.

Blay stepped away and forced himself to replug into the good-bye. “When will you be back?”

“A couple of days at the least, no longer than a week.”

“Okay.”

Saxton glanced around the room again, and as he did, it was clear he was remembering. “Be well, and be careful out there. Do not try to be a hero.”

Blay’s first thought was…well, since Qhuinn was usually the first in line for that, it was unlikely he was going to have to put any kind of Superman outfit on.

“I promise.”

As Saxton left, Blay stared off into space. He didn’t see what was in front of him, or remember what he and Saxton had shared in the room. Rather, his mind was next door with Qhuinn, and Qhuinn’s things…and the memories he had of that session with Qhuinn.

Shit.

Glancing at the clock, he put his phone into the chest pocket of the jacket and headed out. As he jogged down to the staircase, voices from the foyer echoed through the hall, a sign that the Brotherhood had already gathered and was waiting for the departure signal.

Sure enough, they were all there. Z and Phury. V and Butch. Rhage, Tohr, and John Matthew.

As he descended, he found himself wishing that Qhuinn was going to come with them—but surely the male was staying home, given the Layla situation.

Where was Payne? he wondered as he went to stand next to John Matthew.

Tohr nodded a hello in Blay’s direction. “Okay, we’re waiting for one more, and then we’ll start moving. First wave will go to the location. On the all-clear, I will dematerialize with Wrath to the house with backup by—”

Lassiter skidded in from the billiards room, the fallen angel glowing from his black-and-blond hair and white eyes, all the way down to his shitkickers. Then again, maybe the illumination wasn’t his nature, but that gold he insisted on wearing.

He looked like a living, breathing jewelry tree.

“I’m here. Where’s my chauffeur hat?”

“Here, use mine,” Butch said, outing a B Sox cap and throwing it over. “It’ll help that hair of yours.”

The angel caught the thing on the fly and stared at the red S. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Do not tell me you’re a Yankees fan,” V drawled. “I’ll have to kill you, and frankly, tonight we need all the wingmen we’ve got.”

Lassiter tossed the cap back. Whistled. Looked casual.

“Are you serious?” Butch said. Like the guy had maybe volunteered for a lobotomy. Or a limb amputation. Or a pedicure.

“No fucking way,” V echoed. “When and where did you become a friend of the enemy—”

The angel held up his palms. “It’s not my fault you guys suck—”

Tohr actually stepped in front of Lassiter, like he was worried that something a lot more than smack talk was going to start flying. And the sad thing was, he was right to be concerned. Apart from their shellans, V and Butch loved the Sox above almost everything else—including sanity.

“Okay, okay,” Tohr said, “we have bigger things to worry about—”

“He has to sleep at some point,” Butch muttered to his roommate.

“Yeah, watch yourself, angel,” V sneered. “We don’t like your kind.”

Lassiter shrugged, like the Brothers were nothing more than yappy dogs circling his ankles. “Is someone talking to me? Or is that just the sound of losing—”

Lot of shouting at that point.

“Two words, bitches,” Lassiter sneered. “Johnny. Damon. Oh, wait, Kevin. Youkilis. Or Wade. Boggs. Roger. Clemens. Is it that the food sucks in Boston? Or just the ball game?”

Butch lunged at that point, clearly prepared to light the guy up like a Christmas tree—

“What the fuck is going on down there!”

The bellowing voice from above shut off the Sox-versus-Yankees showdown.

As Tohr hauled the cop out